The New Samurai

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  We gave it up as a bad job about 5 am and went to join the monks for 45 minutes of prayers – after washing in cold water. I was praying alright, praying for central heating. But actually it was a pretty intense experience, and joining the monks in their daily life for just one day was memorable. Yoshi found it very moving although I don’t think he’s cut out to be a monk – he’s just too… happy.

  The girls had a better night than we did on the basis that they actually did end up sharing their bed (futon). I won’t comment on the look on Paul’s face when they told him that. (Sorry, Julie!)

  Yoshi surprised me when he said that very few Japanese people bother to stay a night with the monks, and you could see he was pretty pleased with himself that he’d done it – none of his friends at home have, he says.

  Then we were headed back to Tokyo, cold, hungry, tired, dying for a shower, but pure and clean inside – at least in theory.

  Monastery haiku

  My bed is cold, my food is thin

  Teeth chatter like magpies

  Soul is warm.

  Sayonara!

  Two weeks later and Sam was stuffing the last of his clothes into his duffel bag for the Nagasaki trip.

  Tara was lying on his futon watching him. The fact she was distinctly underdressed wasn’t helping his concentration. For the third time he lost count of the number of shirts he’d packed.

  She grinned up at him.

  “Sure you’ve got everything?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. I’m feeling a little distracted,” he admitted as he looked at her.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry so much: I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  “Here?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Right here?”

  “You never know your luck!”

  “Mmm! That’s something to look forward to,” he said.

  She laughed again. “I thought only teenage boys had one-track minds.”

  He shrugged. “I’m multitasking.”

  “It’ll be weird sleeping back in my own room,” she said, thoughtfully. “And Heidi next door snores like a dinosaur with toothache.”

  She stood up and pulled on a pair of jeans and one of Sam’s shirts as she spoke.

  Sam completely lost track of what he was supposed to be doing.

  “Oh well,” she said, “at least Paul won’t have anything to complain about for the next five days.”

  Sam nodded slowly. Then shook his head to clear it.

  “Okay, I think I’m done,” he said. “I’d better get to the station.”

  He sighed.

  “You’re not going away for that long,” said Tara with a chuckle. “Barely enough time to miss me!”

  He reached for her hand.

  “I will miss you,” he whispered.

  She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him so close he could feel the heat of her body through his clothes. She kissed him seriously, her lips silently insisting that she would miss him, too.

  “Now get going,” she said, pushing him out of the door. “See you in five days!”

  It was dark when Sam arrived at the mainline station; Sunday evening revellers crowded the terminal, heading back to the suburbs, others with suitcases and the weariness that accompanies the city vacationer. Even so, it wasn’t hard to spot the 36 students in their navy uniforms milling excitedly around the meeting point, a bronze statue of a dog called Hachiko, a memorial to a Japanese Greyfriars Bobby.

  Several greeted him enthusiastically and he was introduced to pairs of curious parents who had escorted their offspring to the station.

  Few of the parents spoke English but Sam was able to understand their Japanese if they spoke slowly enough. Language skills definitely seemed to be a generational issue.

  Ms Amori glowered at him darkly from the edge of the group: Sam couldn’t help noticing that the students avoided her except to bow formally when confronted by her severe eye.

  The other teachers supervising the trip were Ito-san, a small, studious man from the history department whom Sam had only met briefly in passing; and Takaki-san, a smiling junior teacher who reminded Sam of a female Yoshi.

  Ms Amori had allocated each teacher a group of students to their particular care. Sam’s included Kazuo, who had been friendly from the first day, and seven other young men, most of whom he knew by sight. Everything was arranged strictly along gender lines. Naturally.

  With Sam’s arrival, Ms Amori waved away the last of the parents and assigned the sleeping compartments for the journey. Sam was billeted with Mr Ito at one end of their carriage, and Mrs Takaki was to share with Ms Amori at the other: the students would be sandwiched in compartments between. It seemed that good behaviour wasn’t as guaranteed as Sam had expected; either that or Ms Amori believed in preparing for every eventuality.

  The compartments contained two sofa-like seats facing each other, and a small bathroom with a toilet and tiny sink. Mr Ito bowed to Sam, but continued hovering nervously by the door and frowning when he thought Sam wasn’t looking. Sam sighed: there were times when he felt very much an outsider.

  After leaving their luggage, Mr Ito was clearly relieved to escape the close confines of the sleeping compartment to meet with the other teachers and students in the buffet car.

  At her invitation, Sam seated himself next to Mrs Takaki, who chirruped away happily in a mixture of Japanese and mangled English, her words tripping over themselves in both languages. She was easy company and seemed delighted to be on the trip, delighted that Sam was joining them, and delighted with the buffet car, menu, and sleeping compartment. Everything was either ‘ii’ (good) or ‘omoshiroi’ (exciting).

  Mr Ito spent most of the meal discussing the itinerary in more detail with Ms Amori, who looked a little bored. He seemed to be a generally anxious individual so Sam tried not to take his twitchy glances too personally.

  Sam was surprised when Mr Ito ordered a light beer with his meal. At Kidbrooke, teachers were banned from drinking on school trips and, from Sam’s experience, it made it easier to enforce a no-alcohol rule with pupils if the teachers were following the same set of rules. On balance, he decided it would be wiser to stick to O-cha, as did Ms Amori and Mrs Kakaki. Ms Amori’s expression was guarded, expressing neither disapproval nor approbation.

  As soon as the meal was finished Mr Ito made his bows and hurried back to the sleeping compartment; Ms Amori soon followed, stalking off, intent on speaking to the conductor about the arrangements for breakfast.

  Sam felt himself relax and even Mrs Takaki seemed to loosen several notches, becoming even more jolly. She was a popular teacher and two of the female students soon joined them at their table, asking questions about the itinerary and practising their halting English on Sam, whilst gazing up at him from beneath their lashes. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat: he hadn’t had any problems from female students since he’d arrived in Japan, but the planned trip had an intangible air that suggested the pupils were feeling let off the leash.

  Eventually the evening drew to a close when the attendants in the buffet car began to turn off the lights, and Mrs Takaki herded the remaining pupils back to their compartments; Sam, reluctant to spend too much time with the nervy Mr Ito, had no choice but to do the same.

  He’d expected to find Mr Ito asleep, but instead the teacher was propped up on his sofa wearing a string vest and a pair of thick reading glasses that were slipping down his nose. Mr Ito greeted Sam cheerfully and Sam suspected that this recent good humour resulted from the bottle of Japanese whisky that was nestling next to Mr Ito’s pillow. Every few minutes, Mr Ito unscrewed the lid of his whisky bottle and took another slug, slipping further down his mattress each time.

  The sofas had been turned into small but comfortable-looking beds, presumably by a train steward whilst they were eating, and Sam’s duffel bag had been carefully laid on top. He knelt on the bed and drew back the pleated curtain from the darkened window: distant lights flitted past but with nothing more to
see, Sam turned back to his bed, pulled out a book of Matsu Basho’s haiku, and read for a while.

  He spent a few extra minutes with a Japanese dictionary working out that the sign on the wall kindly informed passengers that it was illegal to have more than one person in a bed at the same time. It made him think of Tara, wondering how many ways they could have broken that rule on the overnight journey.

  Eventually he switched off his reading light and rolled onto his side. He fell asleep to the sound of the train whistling over the tracks, and with the thought that Mr Ito was going to have a bad head in the morning.

  The sun was only just peeking through the thin curtains when Sam woke up. He felt stiff from lying on the hard sofa mattress, especially as it was several inches too short to allow him to stretch out fully. Mr Ito was still snoring softly, a miasma of whisky souring his breath; Sam made a face but moved quietly so as not to wake him.

  He shaved awkwardly in the tiny sink, relieved he’d managed not to inflict too much damage in spite of the train’s awkward movement, and dressed in silence. Mr Ito showed no signs of stirring so Sam slipped out of the compartment and made his way along the carriage. Several sleepy students wished him good morning and followed him, yawning widely, to the buffet car. Neither of the female teachers had arrived yet. That surprised Sam: he’d begun to think of Ms Amori as some sort of super-teacher who had eyes in the back of her head, never made a mistake and never slept. It was possible she wasn’t even human, although that was just a theory brought on by reading too many of Yoshi’s manga magazines.

  Kazuo and two other students asked permission to join Sam for the morning rice. They only had one topic of conversation, which they seemed to have been plotting to bring up.

  “You like sakka, Patterson-san? You play sakka?”

  It took half a minute of mutual misunderstandings before Sam realised they were asking him if he played soccer.

  He answered truthfully.

  “Not very well. I prefer rugby, er, American futtoburo.”

  This surprised them, and a heated discussion entailed before Kazuo ventured another sentence in English.

  “You not American, Patterson-san?”

  Sam smiled and shook his head.

  “No, I’m English. Rugby is a game like American futtoburo but older. And better.”

  All the students nodded but Sam suspected that they had only understood the first part of his explanation.

  “You like Manchester Oonited, Patterson-san?” probed Noboru, which confirmed Sam’s suspicion.

  He looked very serious. This must be a very important question.

  Sam smiled. “They’re okay.”

  This answer didn’t satisfy them, least of all Kazuo.

  “Riberpuro, Patterson-san? Beater music? Pauru McCartney?” asked Jiro eagerly.

  Sam laughed. “Sure! I like the Beatles – who doesn’t?”

  Noboru was particularly delighted with that answer and kept repeating ‘who doesn’t, who doesn’t’.

  Kazuo looked annoyed at the change of subject.

  “We play sakka in Nagasaki, Patterson-san?” he asked insistently.

  “Maybe,” said Sam. “If we have time.”

  Kazuo pouted and Sam smiled to himself. He knew that Japanese people often said ‘maybe’ even when they meant ‘no’ because an outright negative was deemed aggressive and likely to give offence. It was one of the things that gaijin found most difficult about relations with Japanese people, an area likely to be riven by dissatisfaction on both sides. In Sam’s case he meant ‘maybe’.

  Mrs Takaki trotted into the buffet car. She looked a little flustered. Ms Amori marched behind her, scowling at her back. Or maybe just scowling. It was like watching a sheepdog chivvy along a particularly dreamy, recalcitrant ewe.

  Ms Amori’s narrow eyebrows darted upwards when she saw that Sam had already finished his breakfast. Then they pulled together in a frown.

  “Where is Ito-san?” she demanded.

  “Er…”

  Sam wondered what was the best answer to give, but to his relief he spotted Mr Ito swaying through the carriage.

  “He’s over there,” he said, a polite smile on his face.

  Ms Amori scowled at him then turned and threw another scornful look at Mr Ito, who wisely stared at the floor as he made his morning bows.

  Then she dispatched Sam to make sure the last of the boys were awake before announcing that they would be changing trains at Okayama in 20 minutes.

  They changed again at Hakata and finally, having travelled for some 13 hours, they arrived at Nagasaki.

  The city was spread out below, a mirage hovering over the glassy inlet, shimmering in the Autumn sunshine.

  For Sam it was easy to push away the skyscrapers and buildings and roads, roll back the centuries and imagine the first European ships sailing into the port of this strange and beguiling country, each man wondering what this first contact would bring: riches or death.

  He could feel for himself the peculiar mix of irritation with and beguilement by a country and people that could lie effortlessly, but who revered truth; where a single cherry blossom could provoke the most profound poetry in a land where a good death had been the highest aim.

  He gazed down the mountain slope, along the narrow valleys threaded with rivers and canals and to the distant sea beyond, enjoying the moment of peace and yet wishing he were less alone and also more alone.

  After depositing their luggage at a tiny youth hostel, Sam and the other teachers had escorted their students to the cable car pinned to the side of the 1000 foot Mount Inasa, hunched darkly over the city. Mrs Kakaki had hidden her eyes and refused to look, as the car swung gently on the cables.

  None of the pupils had been to this southern city before and so, despite the fact that few had slept well on the train, the excitement was palpable. To Sam they seemed much younger than their 18 years. But, of course, they listened attentively to a long and tedious lecture by Mr Ito on the Portuguese traders, who had been the first European arrivals with the infamous black ships, so-called because the hulls were covered with pitch. Although he seemed to imply a darker meaning, as his eyebrows twitched unwillingly towards Sam.

  Mrs Kakaki, who seemed to have recovered now she was standing on the panoramic viewing platform, enlivened the proceedings considerably by her thrilling and dramatically rendered account of how HMS Phaeton had fired on the Dutch enclave of Dejima in 1808, but still sailed away empty-handed.

  She approximated a naval salute towards Sam, who laughed out loud and swept her a flowery but courteous bow; the students and several bystanders gave a round of applause and Mrs Kakaki blushed and bobbed a bow.

  As the laughter died away Ms Amori stepped forward, her face stern.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “we visit the hypocentre.”

  There was an immediate and heartfelt silence.

  “We will visit the exact place,” she continued, “above where, on 9th August 1945 at 11 o’clock in the morning, the second atomic bomb was dropped on our country.”

  No-one uttered a sound.

  Ms Amori raked her eyes across her audience, her expression unfathomable.

  “Then we will visit the Atomic Bomb Museum and the Peace Park.”

  After that the atmosphere was muted, and Sam felt uncomfortable as his students’ open and previously friendly behaviour became more formal, even guarded, their eyes opaque. He felt a flare of anger towards Ms Amori. Was this the reason he had been invited to accompany the trip? Was the gaijin to feel guilty for the appalling end to the Second World War and consequent loss of life? Was this some sort of penance?

  He stared back at her stonily, meeting her eyes. After a long pause, she abruptly looked away.

  That evening they dined at the oldest restaurant in the city, first established in the seventeenth century, the present building a remarkable survivor of 360 years of war, fire and flood.

  Unlike many places that Sam had visited in Japan, with their mania for
rebuilding, it hadn’t been turned into a Disneyfied version of itself. Instead it was dignified and stained with the unmistakeable patina of age. The long, low, wooden building was set back from the road, an oasis of calm among the busy city streets.

  “You will like very much, Patterson-san,” said Mrs Takaki, tugging on his elbow to gain his attention. “Is formerly Geisha house.”

  Sam was amused. Did she think all gaijin men wanted to meet Geishas, or was she merely commenting on the historic use of the building? Sam thought of Paul and decided his first guess was probably the most likely.

  But truly, it was the kind of place he’d envisioned when he’d first learned he was coming to Japan – the orient, medieval Japan. And the kind of place he could never have afforded to visit in Tokyo.

  There were several dining rooms spread out across a large number of tatami mats, with legless chairs arranged around lacquered tables. Kimono-clad waitresses swished along the wooden corridors, carrying a constant stream of colourful-looking food on heavy trays.

  They were ushered past a series of large display cases that exhibited the history of the building, into the main area, the dragon room, where the rear wall gave way to views over the lovely and ancient garden.

  Sam was relieved that he was to sit with his students: he was still irritated with Ms Amori and didn’t want to risk any sharp words, especially not on the first night. But as he took his seat next to a grinning Noboru, Ms Amori marched towards him. He stood awkwardly as she bore down on him.

  “Patterson-san,” she said, “you will speak only English tonight to benefit your pupils.”

  It would be easier on him but the students were tired, and they would struggle. He nodded and bowed. It was, after all, what he was paid to do.

  Noboru sighed and Kazuo muttered something under his breath that Sam chose not to hear.

  Neither, did it seem, was anyone to have any choice in the food. Almost as soon as Sam had re-seated himself, two waitresses carried in a huge bowl.

  “This shippoku, Patterson-san,” explained Fumio. “Is to create…” he hesitated, unable to find the English word. “Omoyai,” he finished lamely.